The Distant Threshold
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Institute is a cathedral of mahogany and low, conspiratorial light, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of roasted pheasant and the quiet, metallic tang of ambition. You stand at the periphery, your hand resting on the back of a chair, feeling the wood’s cold grain against your palm, while Director Arthur Sterling raises a glass of amber wine to the...
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